


the kind old sun will know

by lilaflora



Category: The Beatles
Genre: World War 1, and mustard gas poisoning, just all the boys loving each other :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22634428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilaflora/pseuds/lilaflora
Summary: february 22nd, 1918. based on the poem ‘futility’ by wilfred owen.
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	the kind old sun will know

It’s because it doesn’t really kill you, not really, only you convulse and all that, and vomit yellow bile, and, _God_ , he scratched at his eyes at one point, didn’t he? 

But he’s still not awake by sunrise, and Ritchie tries to poke him in the eye, and when that doesn’t work, Paul crouches so that his head is level with the bunk. 

_Boo!_ he tries. He adds a jab in the side of the ribs, you know, that stupid spot that’s always made him yelp. Paul carries that on for a bit, all hooting in his ear and _laughing_ , he’s really laughing, but the boy’s still asleep. 

Paul eventually resorts to whispering in his ear, he doesn’t pause any of his poking ministrations. John can’t hear any of it, he can’t even see Paul’s lips moving since he’s got his back to him, but he can only assume what he’s saying. It’s sweet, it’s lovely, and ( _but?_ ) so heartbreakingly brotherly. So brotherly that John feels intrusive, really, because Paul’s obviously still trying to laugh but has his hands clasped together, all grubby and sweaty, but John can’t take his eyes off of them, can’t take his eyes off of _him_ lest he can’t look at him again, and, _oh_ , what if he can’t look at him again? 

John flinches when Paul coughs, all snotty and miserable but tinged with his singsong, girly voice because he’s _still_ laughing and smiling. John looks to Ritchie, who’s red- you can’t see much but he looks as if he’s on fire, with his hands clenched behind his back. He looks angry, and John feels that unfathomable fury at the fact that there’s something that’s made _Ritch_ that angry, because he’s calm and docile and always, always mellow.

The lovely Brummie soldier tells John that it’s sunny outside, it’s still snowy but it’s a little warmer than yesterday. 

Paul’s still laughing and talking to him; John hears an unmistakable _c’mon, yeah_ which makes John’s decision for him; he goes to tap Paul on the shoulder, non verbally asking him for help in carrying the little one, knowing it’s help he’ll never need since he is so very, very skinny, but it’s Ritch who aids him, in the end, Paul only two steps behind them both as Ritchie carries the little one, _le bébé ours_ as he’d been called by a French soldier once and, soon after, John with his terrible French accent.

Paul says that his back will be too wet, that he doesn’t want him to have a wet back. That the snow is kind of melting so it’ll make his shirt all soggy, and that that’s no way to live. That’s no way to live at all, but Paul’s okay with it when they climb up and John lays out his coat for him, not for Paul but for _him_.

The other soldier was right, and it’s absolutely lovely that they all knew each other well enough to know that the littlest liked the sun.

The littlest- how demeaning! 

But he’s only asleep, because gas doesn’t kill you, and he’s the littlest but he’s a fucking _fighter_ , God, if he’s not a fighter, and then suddenly John wants to slap him, to remind him who he is, to remind him that this isn’t who he is, to sleep past 9, to go to sleep _early_ because he’d normally stay up until he got told off, sometimes sulky but sometimes also laughing.

John wants to remind him that he talks in his sleep, sometimes homesick, miserable stuff, but also real gibberish, moaning his little head off about _something_ in a made up language, and that, _God_ , if he decides now he wants to shut up, all nattering and babbling all the time, he might have to stop giving him extra bread after dinner. Back in Liverpool, he and John used to even fucking _gossip_ , they’d shit talk everyone they could get their hands on, like old ladies, they were.

John looks at his own hand, shocked by his own complexion because he thought it was only Paul that was grey, trembling and grey Paul, but it’s not, it’s not at all, because Ritch’s a horrible shade of white too.

Paul leans over the boy to wipe the hair back from his forehead. He rummages in his pocket and gives John a watery smile when he shows him a few squares of chocolate he has wrapped up in tin foil. He looks back at the sleeping boy, willing him to take his present, _it’s your’s_ , he insists, over and over. 

John buries his head in the crook of Paul’s neck and opens his mouth to say something but it’s futile, completely futile, because he’s known sadness, he’s known a lot of sadness in his life but it’s never quite like this, he’s told himself he’ll kill for someone before but he’s never told himself he’ll only die for someone before now, before this. And he loves him, he loves him as he loves his late mother, and he’ll die for him.

And John’ll rage, he’ll rage all the way back to Liverpool, because they’ve taken their George, they’ve taken their George because the sun won’t wake him up; he never hurt a man in his life, and tonight Paul will have to write a letter to Mrs Harrison entailing that her son is dead three days before his nineteenth birthday, but he’ll keep blotching the paper, he will, and Ritchie won’t have anyone to tie his shoelaces together so that he gets his knees all muddy when he gets up, no, they’ll be as undone as is true to Ritch fashion. 

And John, John’ll go home to Mendips, and Mimi will ask him where the little one with wonky teeth is ‘cause she’ll still think he’s only round the corner; still a baby and too young to be conscripted. John’s similar to her, in that way, in that he knows George is _too fucking young_. He’d obviously been so bewildered at it all. He’d joke and laugh and be _really fucking sassy_ to their Major, his charm and bluntness making him, on no uncertain terms, horribly lovable, but, _God_ , he was scared wasn’t he? Not even for himself, but for _them_ \- he had spent every free minute with Paul in the casualty clearing section when Paul smashed his arm, fuck, John had even overheard him once asking one of the generals for John to be sent home on account of his myopia, that he was disabled and it ought to be illegal. He got a box on the shoulder for that. 

Paul reaches down to pull George’s head into his lap; it’s a familiar action because Paul, with his guardianship complex after being a whole _a hundred and thirteen days!_ older than him, would always scrape his hair back from his face when he was sick from drinking too much, half an hour before Paul’s quietly sick himself.

But nothing happens; Paul leans over a shaky arm over to grab George’s hand, and it’s then, it’s then that Paul lets out a blood curdling sob; it sounds like he’s coughing but he’s off, he doesn’t take his hands away from his forehead so his cheeks are soaked, and _oh_ he’s bawling like a boy, because he is a boy, he’s a boy in hysterics over his best friend, over his best friend fitting and convulsing and limp in his lap. 

Ritch wraps his arms around Paul and John but it’s _horrible_ because they’re in a circle now, just the three of them, all exclusive and small and there’s _only fucking three of them, God, there’s only three of them_ , and John doesn’t know he’s speaking aloud until Paul turns to him with his eyes wide, and for a moment John considers pulling George into the circle; George cuddles in his sleep, he burrows like a rabbit and always makes sure his face is concealed right in the junction between the shoulder and the neck.   
But it’s then he’d knew they’d lost, when John turns around and gathers the boy in his arms, holding the entire weight of his head in one of his hands and cradling it into his chest, pleading salty and wet words on the nape of his neck.

**Author's Note:**

> read the poem here! https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57283/futility-56d23aa2d4b57
> 
> i never actually studied this poem in school, but we did study a lot of other owen, but i found them all too graphic and scary, so my mum sent me this one, which unbeknownst to me was actually even more harrowing. i really really love it to such an extent that i actually find this fic _offensive_ because it doesn’t reflect anything he manages to capture.   
> i wrote this agesssss ago and only really proof read it, but i’ll ask you very kindly to plain ignore my v v poor writing style and just get sad at the concept yehhh. far as i know mustard gas didn’t actually kill you i just couldn’t think of anything else to make george dead/unconscious :(  
> it’s nice and short this time unlike my other which is coming along in its own time thanks for asking >:(


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